


Decorating To Soothe the Soul

by Classical_Trash



Category: Inglourious Basterds (2009)
Genre: Don't worry, Gen, I just like Smithson for no real reason, character introspection, fluff?, hints to something darker, it's not bad, no beta we die like men, post-war fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-02
Updated: 2020-09-02
Packaged: 2021-03-06 20:27:17
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,066
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26244895
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Classical_Trash/pseuds/Classical_Trash
Summary: Five years after the war, Smithson inherits his parent's bookshop. He decorates and organizes it to fit his ideal space.
Comments: 2
Kudos: 2





	Decorating To Soothe the Soul

Smithson Utivich likes to think of his parent’s bookshop-

No. It’s now  _ his  _ bookshop, Smithson has to once again remind himself. He looks down at the wooden floorboards that he recently cleaned with the old mop that was solely being held by the insane amount of glue he had to apply to the poor thing. He reminds himself to invest in a new one, but the mental note will mostly be lost in an hour or so. 

But back to his original string of thought, Smithson likes to think of  _ his  _ bookshop as his personal world. A slice of his brain, his soul, his whatever was poured into the decorations, and how everything was organized. Smithson had a long time to think about how he would maintain the bookshop when he was younger. His father never took any of his suggestions, and his mother was adamant about keeping it the way it was. But once his father had passed away five years after he returned from France, and his mother had left New York to live with a cousin Smithson had never heard of in California, he was left with the shop. 

And it’s not like Smithson wasn’t offered to go live in California, but he wasn’t ready to once again leave New York quite yet. 

There are posters, flyers, and photos that Smithson had bought to liven up the place, but some were given to him by his friend who taught at a local high school. 

(When he first redecorated, he immediately got rid of the poster about the war draft that his parents had seemingly forgotten about. He tore it off the wall, ripped it up to shreds, and burned it. Smithson never thought of himself as a dramatic person, but something about this poster needed those certain dramatics so that he could feel comfortable.)

The Jewish man had a Record Player at the counter that always played something. His father was a big fan of collecting records, but never listened to any of them. Once he died, Smithson inherited them due to his mother didn’t want to move the collection with her to California. It was quite a blessing to him though, as he found out that he wasn’t a big fan of silence, especially in the bookshop. The muffled noises of the outside agitated him, clogged his head and he couldn’t focus on his tasks. 

He tries his best to keep the bookshop warm. He spent a lot of money to have indoor heating in the shop, and it was worth it. Smithson finds himself staying indoors more often, especially during times like this, the cold winters of New York. He never disliked the snow or the freezing winds when he was younger, but in France he had already spent too much time in the freezing temperatures so he tries to stay warm. 

Smithson waits for his newest employee, Carina. She lives across the city from the book shop, but she was persistent about working here, even though she dreams of being an actress, an amazing one at that. He can confirm that her crying is very much plausible, and she has such a wide range of emotions that Smithson finds himself not being able to catch up with her in conversations. 

He puts the mop away in the tiny storage closet that was filled with miscellaneous items that Smithson hasn’t dared to go through. Closing the door, he looks at the main window that shows the street outside.  _ Busy as usual,  _ Smithson thinks, watching people pass by in a hurry.

Sometimes, he thinks he can see familiar faces, dirtied with grime and blood, but they should all be gone so he believes he's been looking outside for too long. 

Smithson checks around the shelves to make sure that nothing is out of place. When he gets to the poetry section of his shop, he quickly gets lost in “checking” the books for any torn pages. 

He tried to write poetry when he was 15, but he never had anything to write about. It always came out as short and choppy. Not the elegant flow that he’s read numerous times, and certainly not the emotional whirlwinds that could make people cry. Smithson’s first poem was about a girl he thought he fancied, but she left the school as quickly as his feelings for her had. He thought writing would be a great way to portray his thoughts and emotions but it never succeeded in his eyes.

Smithson eventually left the poetry section to the place where autobiographies and memoirs were stored. These past five years have been flooded with soldiers from the war recounting their experiences and writing it all down, and Smithson has tried to gather a great collection of them, but has yet to read a single one. 

He remembers the one time where a man walked in. He was a tall man who looked like he could lift at least four people at once, but he seemed to always be lost in thought, wandered aimlessly around the bookshop. Smithson had kept a weary eye on the man from his spot at the wooden counter. He spent a lot of time at the autobiography and memoir section. His eyes focused on reading every single title in the two shelves. He didn’t buy anything, even though he spent a good 15 minutes reading one of the memoirs, but he seemed to be happy once he left. 

He cleans up the postcards that were stacked on a desk near the entrance. Smithson picks up one that had the state of Tennesse printed on it, and he feels a twist in his stomach so he puts it down. 

He goes back to the back of his counter, the record player still playing a song he couldn’t identify, but he doesn't mind that. 

Smithson looks at the clock that hung right above the entrance door. 10:27 a.m. Carina should be here soon, so he sits down on the stool, relaxes his body and takes a deep breath. 

Yes, this is his corner of the world,  _ his  _ bookshop. Tailored to his comfort, to what he always dreamed it to be. It’s a manifestation of his mind, and it makes him feel safe. 

The bell at the door rings, and he puts up his pleasing smile, ready to share the joys of  _ his  _ bookshop.

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> This was a character warm-up on my part, but I do hope you enjoyed this little fic :))


End file.
